Текст книги "Revived"

Автор книги: Cat Patrick

Соавторы: Cat Patrick
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

forty-one

I open my eyes, but not all the way.

My field of vision is limited. It’s as if I’m looking through my hands curled into O’s, like mock binoculars. I hear movement and have to turn my head because I have no peripheral vision.

Mason is sitting in a chair next to my hospital bed.

I blink at him. He smiles and takes my left hand, and in his hand mine feels funny. Not numb, but… wrong. I look down at my arms: They’re bloated like they’ve been pumped with air, red and blotchy. My left arm is attached to an IV and I can’t help but wonder how they found a vein through all that marshmallow skin. I don’t have to look in a mirror to know that my face looks the same way; instinctively, I touch my puffy cheek.

Mason’s eyes are watery, and he’s blinking like he’s trying not to cry.

“Hi, Daisy,” he says warmly. I look around, squinting, trying to make my eyes work properly. Mason takes it as me not knowing where I am. “You’re at the hospital. You were attacked by bees, but you’re okay now. You’re safe.”

I let go of Mason’s hand so I can pat an itch on my forehead, knowing well enough not to use my fingernails—I don’t want scars. I pat another on my right arm as a nurse breezes in to check on me. She tips forward a little as she walks, like she’s about to fall over. She has punk-rock hair—a bleach-blond boy cut—even though she’s the age of a grandmother.

“Welcome back, young lady,” she says as she puts a finger on my wrist and looks at the clock. Her words are kind, but her face is all business.

“Thanks,” I say, managing to talk even though my lips are stuck together. “Did you…” I whisper to Mason. He shakes his head and glances at the nurse. She does something behind me, then writes on my chart. Mason waits for her to leave before he answers me.

“Matt saved you,” he says. “He called nine-one-one. And…”

“What?”

“He also contacted Megan.”

I stare at Mason for a second, realizing that he knows I told Matt about the program. But breaking the rules might have also saved both of our lives. Mason’s not saying more about it, so I decide to gloss over it, too.

“How?” I ask. Pat, pat.

“Through the blog,” Mason says. Pat, pat.

“That was so smart of him,” I say, amazed. I wipe at nothing under my right eye, and it’s then that I realize what’s blocking my vision: skin. My own swollen skin.

“Yes,” Mason says, bringing me back, “it was clever.”

“Cassie…” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. When I do, I feel the sting wounds on my scalp rubbing against the pillow. Aware of them now, I pat my head.

“I know,” he says. “I can’t believe that she was watching our every move all this time. Plotting with God. I can’t fathom how or why….” His voice trails off and, for a second, he looks distractedly out the window.

“So did I die?” I whisper, because who knows where the nurse went.

“Yes,” Mason says, his green eyes back on me.

“Tell me what happened,” I say, mostly because I want to know, but also because I need a distraction. I’ve been stung by bees before, but it’s never been this bad. It’s like having PMS bloat throughout my whole body instead of just in my midsection; I have to wiggle my fingers so they don’t go numb from losing circulation. That, coupled with the itchy, burning pain of my body rejecting the venom, is making me feel like I’m going to freak out.

Mason looks at me wearily; he can tell I’m not feeling well. “You need your rest,” he says.

“Tell me what happened,” I command.

“Okay, Daisy,” he says, patting my hand, but not hard enough to take away the itch. “Okay.” He pauses and leans closer to me so I can hear him despite his low tone. “Matt told Megan that he heard you say something about Cassie—”

“He heard that?” I interrupt, remembering lying on the concrete. Dying.

“Apparently so,” Mason says softly. “Anyway, Matt relayed that to Megan, who in turn got David involved. David tracked Cassie’s cell location and recent calls, which led him to God’s location. He sent teams after both and focused on you.”

“But Cassie cleaned out the Revive,” I say. “And no one was around to administer it.”

“David grounded my plane in the middle of a field and had a car waiting for me,” he says.

“I bet that was scary.”

Mason makes a so-so gesture with his hand. I pat, pat my cheek. “The civilians were frantic,” he says. “They thought it was terrorists. I got an in-flight message from David, though, so I knew what was happening. It’s a good thing, too; God had something planned for me when I landed in Washington.”

“How long did it take you to get to me?” I ask, shifting to a more comfortable position.

“Thankfully, the flight path took us east, so I was only about twenty miles away.”

“That’s too far out,” I say, shaking my head. Surprisingly, I can’t feel the stings this time. “You couldn’t have brought me back from that.” Suddenly I feel spacey, like I’m watching the scene from outside my body. I realize that nothing else is bothering me anymore, either. I move my head again to make sure.

“Did the nurse give me something?” I ask.

Mason nods. “We’ve been sedating you to keep you calm,” he says. “You were stung more than a hundred times.”

My head falls back to the pillow but I fight sleep; I need to know what happened. I shake my head more forcefully to clear the fog.

“How long was I dead?”

“Twelve minutes,” Mason says seriously.

“Wait, what?” I ask, my eyelids drooping. “But you said you were…”

“Shh,” Mason says. “Get some rest now. I’ll explain later.”

I refuse to close my eyes. “Explain now,” I demand, but it lacks conviction.

“Daisy, you died, but Revive didn’t bring you back,” he says.

“What did, then?” I ask, finally closing my eyes, barely hanging on to consciousness.

“Blah, blah, blah,” I hear Mason say, except I’m pretty sure that’s not actually what he said. I force open my eyelids one last time.

“What saved me?”

This time, because I can see his lips, I get it.

“CPR.”

forty-two

When I’m feeling better and looking less like Frankenstein, instead of taking me back to Omaha like I want him to, Mason flies with me to Washington State. That same day, he boards his second plane in a week bound for Washington, D.C. Even though God and Cassie are in custody, Mason wants me under a watchful eye until he’s sure it’s all over. Still jumping at shadows, I’m okay with being watched.

For two weeks, Mason checks in on the phone or through email every night, but he never says very much. I try to keep it light and enjoy my time with Megan, but I have questions that need to be answered before I can fully move on.

And there are things to say, too.

My second to last night in Seattle, I dial Matt. I’ve spoken to him twice since the accident, but both times it was too brief and stilted: Mason was in the room the first time, and Megan was hovering the second.

“Are you alone?” I ask. It’s late; Megan and her mom are sleeping.

“Yeah, just listening to some music,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” I say. “I’m back in regular clothes, and the scabs don’t itch as much. My tongue doesn’t feel like I pierced it anymore.”

“That’s good.”

“I still look like I got beat up.”

“At least you’re feeling better.”

I listen to Matt inhale and exhale; it makes me shiver.

“Listen, Matt,” I begin. “I want to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome… again,” he says with a little laugh.

“I’m serious,” I say. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough. You saved my life. I owe you—”

“Naw,” Matt interrupts gently. “We’re even.”

“For what?” I ask.

“For… you saving me, too,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“I just don’t think I’d have gotten through Audrey’s death without knowing you were there for me. Even though we didn’t talk much, having you in my life… That was enough. It helped. It was huge. I know I’m never going to get over it completely—I wouldn’t want to—but now I feel like I can actually deal, and I owe that to you.”

We’re quiet for a few seconds. I think about how odd it is that after Audrey died, when I didn’t hear from Matt, I spent a lot of time wondering if he was slipping away. I didn’t know it, but he was holding on for dear life.

“I was about to tell you something right before everything happened in Hayes,” I say. “Right before you clicked over to the other line.”

“What’s that?” Matt asks in a low tone.

I take a deep breath and decide to go for it.

“I was going to say that I love you.”

I hear a quick exhale on the other end of the line.

“And if you had,” Matt says, strong and sexy, “I would have said that I love you, too.”

Two weeks and one day after Mason dropped me off, he’s back. He says we’re flying out the next day, back to Omaha. I bounce with excitement until he slams me back to earth.

“We’re being relocated again,” he reports.

“But why?” I ask. “God and Cassie are in custody. And I died in Texas. Everyone in Omaha thinks I’m out sick.”

“Not everyone,” Mason says, looking at me pointedly.

I stare at him, confused.

“The director is aware that Matt was the one who called nine-one-one,” Mason continues. “That someone you went to school with in Omaha knows you died.”

“But Matt knows I’m alive,” I protest. “He knows about the program,” I acknowledge aloud.

“I know that, but the director doesn’t,” Mason says.

“You lied?”

“Of course I lied,” Mason says. “I was protecting you.”

“But Mason, Revive didn’t even bring me back,” I say. “I can go back to school and tell everyone that I was miraculously saved by normal modern medicine after a bee attack. Everyone will be so impressed.”

“That’s the director’s fear,” Mason says.

“What?”

“That this will draw attention to you,” he clarifies. “That if you go back and say you were saved from a bee attack, the news will report on you. People will look into your background. There’s potential for exposure.”

I’m quiet, unsure what to say. Mason looks at me with tired eyes.

“Daisy, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s better this way.”

“What way?” I ask, anger rising in me.

“It’s better if we go quietly.”

“Better for who?” I ask, ready to burst. And then, with a few simple words, Mason changes everything.

“Matt,” he says. “It’s better for Matt.”

forty-three

The house in Omaha already feels foreign; I guess my brain knows when it’s time to go. This time, though, my heart wants to stay.

Mason gives me three hours to pack the critical items; the cleanup crew will ship the rest. I spend one hour halfheartedly tossing clothes and books into my suitcase, then I text Matt, asking him to pick me up down the block. I thump my suitcase down the stairs and leave it in the entryway for Mason to carry out to the car.

Mason’s in the basement when I leave. Maybe I’ll make it back before he surfaces; maybe I won’t. Either way, seeing Matt right now isn’t optional. I slip out the front door into the crisp afternoon air, then button my jacket, surprised by the wintery chill. I walk two blocks and stop on the corner, only long enough to blow on my hands once before Matt arrives.

The seconds after I climb into his car and shut the door are like the silence between songs on your most emotional playlist. It’s a break in the action; the world stops spinning for a few beats. But you know something’s coming.

And then it does.

Matt puts his hands on my cheeks, cupping my jawbones. His powerful eyes are more intense than I’ve ever seen them. Captivated, I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to. He holds my face for a moment, staring. And then…

“Don’t die,” he says lowly, his voice cracking a little.

“I won’t,” I promise, hoping I’m telling the truth.

“I mean it,” he says. “I can’t take anything happening to you.”

“I know,” I say, grabbing on to his forearms, holding him holding me.

“Take your damn EpiPen to school,” he says.

I laugh, a quick exhale. “I will.”

“And stay away from bees,” he continues. “In fact, just stay inside.”

“Okay,” I say, laughing again.

“And…” Matt moves closer; his face is inches from mine. “Stay.”

It’s like a punch to the chest; tears fill my eyes. Matt’s expression is so raw, so brutally honest, I want to find a reason to look away.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a tight embrace. I’m leaning sideways over the center console and the gearshift is digging into my hip and still, I’d stay like this for hours if I could. I’ve never been more comfortable. I’ve never been warmer. Here in Matt’s arms, I’m reminded again:

I’ve never belonged anywhere but here.

forty-four

Nomadic as I am, I try hard to see the positives about our new hometown of Alameda, California. A little island between Oakland and San Francisco, Alameda is the sort of homey place that a person could really love… if her heart wasn’t stuck somewhere in Middle America.

And yet, I try. Touring the city, I make mental lists of Alameda’s pros:

1. The weather.

2. The updated main street, boasting places like hip clothing stores, an indie bookseller, and a vintage ice-cream shop all on the same block.

3. The intimate beach with a clear view of San Francisco’s skyline that Matt would love…

It’s hard to keep my head in this state. But Mason does his best to help.

When we drive into town two days before I start tenth grade for what I hope is the last time, he pulls into a driveway I mistake for someone else’s.

“Are you lost?” I ask, looking at the Victorian that could be a movie set.

“Nope,” he says, smiling and craning his neck to see the top of the three-story dwelling.

“Mason, are you messing with me?” I ask, eyeing the wraparound porch skeptically.

“I’m not messing with you,” he says, laughing. “It’s bigger than we need, but it’s a historic home and I like it. Plus, you never know—our family might grow someday.”

Before I have time to ask more about that last statement, Mason jumps out and heads up the front steps. He waves at me to follow.

When I walk through the door, I’m awestruck. For what Mason reports is over a century, this home was clearly loved. And why not? There’s dark wood trim and paneling along the grand staircase. There are built-in library shelves that make me want to live right in the sitting room. The kitchen is bright and airy, with modern appliances; the living room is massive. And there are five bedrooms. “I get my own bathroom,” I say. “And look at this closet!”

“You like it?” Mason asks sheepishly, as if the house is a gift he’s giving me. I guess in a way, it is.

“It’s awesome,” I say before taking a moment to look out each of my three bedroom windows.

“Even though it’s not in Omaha?” Mason asks.

I take a deep breath of California air.

“Even though it’s not in Omaha.”

On the night before school starts, I knock on Mason’s bedroom door. He’s in pajama pants and a gray T-shirt. He sets aside the novel he’s reading and gives me his full attention.

“I was just wondering how things are going with the investigation,” I say, lingering in the doorway.

“Oh, Daisy, there’s nothing new,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “They’re still thinking it’s going to take months to sort out. Apparently neither of them is being cooperative, and a lot is still unclear.”

“So the program’s on hold until they figure it out?” I ask.

“Unfortunately so,” Mason says. “All the files and lab equipment and the drug itself will remain under tight security until the director can determine whether anyone else was involved.”

“What do you think he’s going to do after that?” I ask. “Kill the program?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but not likely,” Mason says. “The director has a science background. My hunch is that he’ll take it under his wing and finish off the thirty-year commitment to tracking the bus kids. At that point, though, he might decide to bury it.”

“Why?” I ask, surprised. “Wouldn’t he want to move forward? Besides God going mental, the program’s been a success, at least so far.”

Mason swallows hard and looks away.

“Hasn’t it?” I ask.

“It has,” Mason says. “But you were right.”

I think back to what I just said, to what he could possibly be talking about. When I don’t say anything, Mason clarifies.

“Daisy, God caused both Nora’s death and the original bus crash that started the program. He actually bragged about giving Revive the push it needed. You were right. In fact, it appears from his program files that he was looking for another ‘bus.’ Another large group of people to be the second test group. He had schematics for places like amusement parks and movie theaters at his office.”

“Aquariums,” I say, remembering.

“Aquariums,” Mason says, realizing that I was probably right about the man under the ocean being God, too.

“How could anyone do that?” I ask, not because I’m particularly surprised but because I’m sad for all of us in the program, and for those of us who aren’t.

“He’d have to be a sociopath,” Mason says. “Which, I guess he is.”

“And what about Cassie?” I ask, horrified.

“We always knew she was a genius who graduated early and was recruited out of college,” Mason says. “But the truth is that it started much earlier than that.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, confused.

“Daisy, when God called Cassie Jesus that day in Texas, it wasn’t much of a stretch,” he says. “Cassie is God’s daughter.”

I gasp, then shake my head. Mason fills in the blanks.

“Her mother left when she was little, and I guess God saw that as an opportunity to mold Cassie into the person he wanted her to be,” he says. “When the director figured out their relationship through DNA tests, he went back through Cassie’s records more closely. She was rigorously homeschooled and never allowed to have friends. She was trained on weaponry and military tactics as a preteen. She was pushed into early graduation. Basically, she was bred to be an agent.” Mason pauses. “With a man like that raising her, she didn’t have a chance. She always wanted to please him, and I guess she never grew out of it.”

“Why do you think he placed her with us?” I ask.

Mason sighs. I know he feels bad for not sensing that something was very wrong with Cassie.

“I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure,” Mason says. “But my guess is that it was because of you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I think God was a little obsessed with you,” Mason says. It sends chills through me. “Back when the bus crashed, he wanted to find you another place to live. He didn’t want an agent taking on a child. But I fought for you.”

“Why?”

“Did I ever tell you about my wife?” Mason asks.

“No, but I know,” I say quietly. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve snooped in Mason’s personnel file. I did it regularly until I found out that he had a wife who died in a skiing accident. After that, I was riddled with guilt and never opened his file again.

“Good,” Mason surprises me by saying. “I’m not always the best at talking about personal stuff, but I’m glad you know.” He pauses. “You would have liked her. She was really funny. And she was a hell of a cook.”

I smile. “I’m sure she was great.”

“She always encouraged me,” Mason says. “She supported me through med school. Then, when the program first tried to recruit me, I thought I was too inexperienced to take part. I declined at first and she was upset; she said that I was blind to my own potential.”

Mason looks distracted for a second, then comes back to earth.

“But she died, as you know. We were on vacation in Colorado. She lost control on her skis and hit a tree. It was immediate.” Mason’s eyes cloud over. “But what’s not in the file is that she was pregnant at the time. It was so early that even she didn’t know.”

“I’m so sorry,” I nearly whisper.

“Thank you,” Mason says. “It was awful. But her death brought me to the program. I decided to pursue what she’d wanted me to. And then when you showed up, a child without a home, I saw it as my opportunity. It was as if I could feel Zoe pushing me forward, telling me to do it.”

“I’m glad you did,” I say.

“Me, too. I just hope that I didn’t negatively impact you in some way, like God did to Cassie,” Mason says, worried. “I’ve tried my best, but you’ve hardly grown up in a typical household.”

“But no matter where it’s been, it’s been a loving one,” I say. “That’s all that matters. And you’re nothing like God. You’re a real father. I’ll always be thankful for your decision.”

Mason holds my stare for a moment and smiles warmly.

“It was the best decision of my life.”

When I turn off the light on the day, my conversation with Mason fresh in my mind, a sick thought plagues me: If God was willing to go to such great lengths as purposely killing twenty-two people to start and protect his pet project, what else might he have done?

If, for example, he wanted Mason in the program but Mason wasn’t interested, would God give him—or his wife—a little push?

Could he—would he—kill Mason’s wife to lure him in?

And what about me and my accident-prone tendencies? Has it really been all about me? Sure, I’m forgetful, and yes, I do silly things. Everyone does. But I was under the thumb of a maniac and his ambitious daughter.

The thought that runs through my head much too late at night is this:

If he killed me once…

Did he do it again?